Day Sixty Seven: “Rest” Day in Ridgway
Distance: 23 mi.
Scant miles made taxing by 15 — 17 MPH headwinds and a flat tire coupled with a large tear in my Pasela. It’s really time to replace this tire; I make due by patching the interior of the fabric and swapping out the tube. I’ll look for another Schwalbe Marathon Plus in Montrose to complete the set.
Duck into a cafe for espresso and pastries, which are shockingly good for the middle of the highway in rural Colorado. Clear signal we’re nearing the touristy half of the state.
We pull into the Pa-Co-Cho-Pul campground area 8 miles before the town of Ridgeway, free admittance for bikers; huddle in partial shade under trees lining the park entryway. It’s almost noon. It’s very hot. We have no cell phone service; nor do we know if we’ll be able to camp farther into Ridgway. I ask around but the answers I get are “no” or “I don’t know.” I’m tempted to chance it, because the route to Telluride requires a very steep climb; and we’re down to ramen noodles, macaroni, and a couple of apples.
A sun-bronzed mustached man passes by in a truck, asks us where we’re headed and offers to let us park our tent on his lot. That won’t cost anything, so it’s a pretty good deal. We talk it over for a minute — I’m apprehensive about stopping short, quelle surprise — but decide to accept the kindness.
Craig is a ranger and his partner works the entry station at the other end of the park. We pitch our tent quickly in the middle of a hayfield — unbeknownst to me at the time, my towel gains hundreds of shards of spiky hay in the process. Craig marks a ridge mountain bike trail in the distance, his friend rides it hike n’ bike style. Lizzie joins me for the expedition but quickly becomes furious at me for “making her” lug her bike up the mountain.
We swim in cold, cold water and I listen to a stoned out young Christian on the shore proselytize a mind-mannered teenage man toward the “real” path of Christ. Much of his espousals praise Jesus’ radical humility and radical questioning of social norms; in other words, it makes little sense in the Christian tradition (better explained by colonialism than any interogation of the self), and fares better than your average elegy.
We’re well warmed from the sun as we drop back into the campground. Our friends offer to make us dinner — how could we say no? And we each eat a phenomenal plate of pastas, salads, and sausages (veggie sausages for Lizzie)
I fall asleep squirming with anticipation for the ride, and the destination, that will be Telluride.
